


In-Flight Breakfast

by 11dishwashers



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:38:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/11dishwashers/pseuds/11dishwashers
Summary: They land in Osaka at half six in the morning, where Yuta waits at the baggage conveyor belt like he's not about to slip into a predictable coma, listening to the group of college girls a foot away talk about watch brands. Taeil's just spent the whole flight complaining about never being brought to art galleries anymore.'I hate this,' Yuta thinks.





	1. Chapter 1

The ninth apartment had coffee rings on its floorboards as there was no other space for mugs. Every surface was fabric or nonexistent; the comfort felt within its plasterboard walls was unmatched by any other place Yuta had been to or would be in in the future, quite possibly. He was sure that if there weren't any distracting matters at hand there'd be a turn of the neck for him and he'd see these rings right by the bed, by the wooden legs where scrapes dashed the floor from how it dragged when moved, and this was what was happening now- that thumping as the metal headboard hit the wall and the occasional ad libbed squeak, among other squeaks from Taeil, who shouldn't be squeaking since he was topping but he'd always been a bit weird like that. They were sudden enough that Yuta could choose to stop them if he had control, he'd just have to lean up and kiss him and it'd be replaced with awkward clacking sounds of white teeth. 

This would be the case if his hands weren't tied to the rails just behind him- ever so often his head would bump off them when he got pushed forward just enough, he had hips that jutted out enough to be held like his PS4 controller(love handles, he thinks they're meant to be called, but it's not like now's the time to be thinking such things. The dick up his ass was really distracting him but no more than the way his wrists strained against the rope; it was a heavy duty sort which he couldn't snap despite his previous inclinations to, one Taeil had picked up from the hardware store with about zero intentions when it came to its practical use and all intentions for what felt like a bedroom escapade). 

"I'm-" he said, leaning closer and squeaking again. On second or fourth or tenth repeat of this sound, Yuta noticed its similarities with rusted metal against rusted metal and the noise they'd make when dragged and he couldn't unhear it. It was as if Taeil had become a tin man or an unknown creature, a sort which meant he'd have no right to be inside anyone at all, and that it was none of his business how tight Yuta's hole was or anything like that. He was so close his eyes could no longer be reached by the curtain light and they became impossibly nonexistent, an absence of light with no other evidence of their existence besides the way his eyelashes dragged across Yuta's cheek when he blinked. He did this a lot- it could be described as 'fluttering' if one were hung up on such unimportances. This meant he'd come and Yuta wouldn't- not with the way things were shaping up. The only thing touching his dick was his pubes and he couldn't even feel those. Thrust. Thrust. Slower thrust. "Yuta, do you want me to untie-"

"Yes please," he said and wriggled his hands just slightly. Earlier, when they'd started getting touchy, he'd assumed the later strain would be found in his hole or his thighs or the edges of his mouth when stretched, but not his wrists. The rope was a surprise but not a disagreeable one. It was more of a compromise than anything else, and he really didn't like disagreeing with Taeil on stupid things like this- all he wanted to do was touch his dick, just a bit. Then he could come, maybe, and that shouldn't be a spot of something hopeful when in the sheets, yet they'd been dating for too long not to make each other worse at sex, or at least for those patches of newfound astonishment to wear away into this routine they had now. It was hard not to notice someone's shortcomings when they were never improved upon. Sitting in the smoke room last week, watching the orange bar lights shine across people's hair, Yuta had wondered what it'd be like to dial up a hotline and just. Just what, exactly? Just what, huh? What're you thinking about?

It wasn't hard to feel like a bad person around Taeil. Actually, he found it to be the easiest thing about their relationship. 

The hands left his hips and began smoothing up his stomach before they stopped halfway, were pulled off out of nowhere. Taeil was more careful about thrusting now, in case he pulled his dick out by accident and it'd just be humping skin without flesh- this would make him embarrassed and more likely to fuck up. His fingertips left that stickiness that came from sex against Yuta's wrists as they pried the rope apart. His fingers had always been disproportionately long and thin, and sometimes at night as Taeil held a hand out of the window frame- an alarm sat by a coffee mug upon it, numbers burning red and changing far too often- they'd cast a shadow along the opposite wall that could be mistaken for a tree which had been skinnied with death, if they didn't live blocked up in Industrial Town, known by the tourists as 'Incheon'. The rope came apart and Yuta's wrists burned to no one's surprise. He reached a hand down but this proved useless when Taeil collapsed onto him with a heavy sigh. "Sorry," he said tiredly, crown of his head pressing between Yuta's collarbones. "I'll finish you off."

"I can do it," said Yuta.

Taeil looked at him through his fringe, eyes hazy and jittering with his continued effort to keep them open, one which was in vain because he’d fall asleep eventually just like this, probably without even taking the condom off. "You don't want to," when he said things in this position, his breath was warm, like a fixed object that left discomfort wherever it could be felt. 

"Well," said Yuta, because Taeil was very right but it wasn't such a good thing to admit it, and he knew this as he knew there was something wrong about this, whatever this was- perhaps how he could see the ceiling now and its bumps and how tomorrow morning, he'd also see the ceiling and its bumps, and the next day after that he'd see the ceiling and its bumps, all the way up to the Nakamoto family trip. Even still the ceiling would carry a presence that broke the boundaries of plaster in the form of Taeil; his rolly suitcase with the miniature padlock, by his side each morning as they slept atop mats on the sun room floor. There'd be no curtains and the sky would be the only thing above Yuta, but still the slab of plaster would be contained within Taeil's skinny body all tangled up with his. Yuta wasn't sure if it was worth addressing this or referring to it as an issue; his ring finger told him it'd like to be cut off before any serious mistakes were made, either the ring finger or Taeil would have to go and the choice was his for the most part. He slipped not only it but the rest of his right hand through Taeil's hair, hoping he'd have time to shower tomorrow morning. Cold water and sex and soap collecting in the drain. One of these collected everywhere in the flat. "It's fine, I don't really need to finish now. Next time you should pay more attention to my dick if you decide to tie me up again- I really don't know if I'm cut out for this kinky shit, by the way, maybe if I was topping it'd be fine but now I really can't tell. By the way, it's my turn to top next, you promised. I even bought my own condoms. I know you complain that you use a different size or whatever. It's just a bit humiliating to ask for average sized ones, but I'm not sure if that's irrational or not since it's average for a reason. I bet all the clerks have average sized ones too; even the girls. Well, maybe not the girls but still... the guys probably do. Or maybe they just don't care what I'm getting, since they seem to notice my accent first. I know I complain about this a lot but I hate when they say 'arigatou' when I give them the money- I've been here for years and I still haven't lost my accent, apparently. I don't think people realise that I notice their weird Korean accents too. Yours is cute though, I think. I really liked it when we first started dating," Yuta frowned and shifted a bit on the mattress, trying to find as much comfort as possible when someone was lying on top of him. He hoped Taeil would get the hint and roll off. "It was a lot of things, really. I loved your clothes too, but I bet Johnny told you that. He's such a big mouth. He'd really tell anyone anything. He'd probably turn me into the police for so much shit if I was intimidated by his height, which I'm not. I just think he looks awkward most of the time- not like you, though I guess you are kinda short. Really short, actually, now that I think about it. I thought that was cute too back in the day, before we started fucking. And dating. That too."

He shifted again. Taeil didn't move, even so, and then the softed of snores came out. He'd been asleep for a while now. Quite possibly since he'd collapsed, and the thought was a comfort in one way or another- he hadn't considered Yuta, therefore he hadn't cared enough to. Every word carried no weight and it was no longer a conscious decision of Yuta's not to talk, he spoke and it went unheard without it being his fault. 

"I wish it was like this more often," he said to himself, fingers still in Taeil's hair, letting his eyes slip closed. 

  
  
  
  


The ceiling was in place when he woke up, but only the grey incarnation of it that glistened cold in winter, and not the one filled with blood and consciousness which was most associated with humans who made it a point to love too much. His nerves picked up where they'd left off last night and felt nothing but the cotton duvet covers, the blue ones with random purple dashes across them that had resurfaced from the depths of Taeil's airing cupboard, even though he'd had a single bed that lay in line with his windows and the radiator before Yuta had moved in. Alone in bed, right hand placed across his chest in a way unnatural enough he knew he hadn't done it himself. He lay like that for a while with his eyes trained on the alarm clock, trying to catch it at the exact moment it changed. 

It seemed to him more than anyone else that there was nothing to do when dating. He'd dated around before, of course- a friend of his sister's, to which she'd gone red faced over, some girls in his essay writing classes, friends of friends of friends who'd lie on beds and decking and overstuffed(or sometimes when there was a rip in the faux leather, understuffed, with the material that'd make it quite the opposite nudged beneath it in hiding) sofas with him, getting smashed to the point where it was a brave decision rather than a reckless one. At the age he'd been, if his parents could see him through a telescope in Osaka, they'd laugh rather than cry. Back when he'd worked at an italian restaurant, he'd sit with strangers in the smoking section and remain unaware that they'd break his heart one day. Such was the case when people viewed him as hungry for one night stands; they wouldn't allow themselves to consider him as anything other than fun to fuck. 

And then he was dating Taeil; this was when he figured that real, proper dating, the secure kind which to many had all the implications of meaning something, was largely uninteresting and overrated. He hadn't many friends to speak of from back in his school days and Taeil was always busy or tired or vapid or all three. Yuta had a job which many considered to be 'the dream', should such a thing exist. His dream must've been unassumed by him as he'd always thought it'd be to work as a full time writer, though now it didn't seem as though that was the case. His other dream had been to be loved which was, for the most part, in the works- the hitch in the system was that Taeil hardly got a chance to remember why exactly he loved Yuta in the first place, when the time between their contact was less brief than the contact itself. Few and far between as most treats went. 

Something kept them around. 

Yuta first dragged himself to their artful pile of clothes on the floor, then dragged a dressing gown out from its depths, then dragged it across his skin which was covered in dry sweat for the most part, then dragged himself to the kitchen. The washing machine was on and though it never paused he could tell only Taeil's clothes were in it by the colours(the fact that they existed, mostly; Yuta had always been a fan of black clothes and black laces and black nail polish on his girls and black jeans on his guys). To the surprise of just himself, they had a calendar trapped between a magnet and the coldness of the fridge door, one that not only had birthdays filled into its margins and coincided with the current year, but also one that got a new x and o every day, and even that was more than he'd ask for off Taeil. It meant nothing to him when he opened the fridge each morning to root around for breakfast, but now the dates were relevant at last- two days until the Nakamoto family trip. This trip would only be a holiday for him and Taeil, while the rest of the Nakamotos would be going stir crazy dicking around in the house all day during the height of summer, where the chirping of cicadas sometimes rivalled the chirping of phone lines and electricity that bore no similarities to thick fog, but rather to air with the way it fitted right in about as natural as taxis in Seoul, maybe even moreso. Every part of the city. It was a spiritual area of Industrial Town. 

Two days and they'd be gone. The ceiling would be hard to carry through the airport and even harder to look after onwards, bumbling about in yellow shoes while failing to speak Japanese. 

  
  
  


"Who am I based off this time around?" he was particularly painful on the legs, stomach flat against them while he tried to be annoying. Yuta could feel his circulation cut off but he couldn't see the cause of his severed limbs as the laptop screen covered everything. Even if it didn't, in the midst of his word document, the spacing between the letters meant more to him than anything which might be real and he'd draw his attention away from it with great difficulty. Taeil was this difficulty; he wasn't heavy but he was annoying. 

"Don't you mean, 'who's based on me'?" said Yuta, closing the sticky keys window. "And no one. I don't like writing about things I actually know."

"So you've said," Taeil replied, and his roots were just about visible over the screen if one were to squint. He clearly hadn't had enough time to shower this morning and it reflected heavy in his hair; the white strands that were only white because of the lamp and the black strands that caught the shininess still. "Won't stop me from asking, though."

Yuta considered him for a second, and thought that this really should be what he wanted. He'd been seeking a moment like this out- one where Taeil reflected who he'd been at the start, mildly excitable and eager to share his time with Yuta. He closed the case of his laptop. When it was third of the way closed, it'd let out a worrying snap like ice hitting the wall, and this happened every time without fail. They were face to face now without being nose to nose. "You never do."

Taeil tilted his head so his jaw was against Yuta's knee, and with some more pressure he'd feel the dry skin along the sides of Yuta’s kneecaps, where bones became muscle. "I just want an answer," he said, "that's all."

"You wanna hear that I've written you as the love interest," said Yuta, sliding the laptop halfway across the bed to where he'd sleep on regular nights. It was the right side; the one nowhere near a radiator or an advantage towards its existence. The bed could be sawed in half and positioned perfectly, with one side by the radiator and the other pressed up against the feature wall- the twinset could look nice under the right conditions, as the apartment hadn't been found with inherent ugliness, rather it had became ugly with time, the inclusion of the usual dating space. Extra shoe racks which couldn't fit together, extra drawers with the same underwear, extra sheets clogging up the hot press, extra cutlery in the tray, extra niceties which had been ruined with presence, or the improper handling of such a thing. 

When Taeil lifted his head dead-on between his shoulders, his earrings glinted bright gold, just as Yuta's knees splotched paleness. Where a head had been, there was now a great big patch of white surrounded by a similar patch of red, like a blister. "I just think it's romantic that way... like, you'd describe me in a romantic light, no?"

Yuta rolled his eyes, "how many times do I have to tell you I  _ *don't write romance _ *?"

"I just think you'd be good at it, is all," Taeil said, now reaching beneath the bed for his rolly suitcase. His spine left the slightest of bumps through his t shirt. When he moved, the discs would bob. "Better than your sci-fi."

"I was sixteen," Yuta followed each movement closely, though for what reason, he couldn't tell. Observing Taeil had become a favourite of his in recent times and months and seasons- he'd loved it before and now it was a simple joy to be found amidst the rest of the pieces. Taeil bent forward to push the suitcase out, then reached to unzip it before deciding he wasn't bothered. His elbows were raw from how they'd jam against desk surfaces all day, holding his head in his hands before a Windows 86 monitor, one that definitely didn't exist within reality but surpassed it in sense. Now he had his hands rested just above his knees, followed by the slight bow of his head. "Tired?"

"No more than usual," he said all thin in such a way that meant he was smiling; not the good kind, as far as smiles went. His cuffs were adjusted too tight to ride completely up his arms when raised; they'd get stuck halfway down, white buttons threatening to pop off and across the floor. They'd circle the piles of laundry before slipping through a crack and falling down below to the flat just below, where the neighbour would choke on it from behind their mug of tea, hands wet with spit and desperation. 

"Let's sleep."

He was still looking and being watched, collar popped as he undid the buttons. "It's still bright out, I won't be able to sleep later on."

It wasn't even that bright out. Occasionally the passing cars would cast a light along the walls, but the flat was close to the ground in such a way that nothing else in Seoul was. It had become an off-limits sort of thing for the outside to affect them. When it rained, it wouldn't rain indoors, and so on and so forth. Yuta didn't leave the flat if it could be avoided. When he did, it was to do something anyone with half a brain could do; shopping or running errands or collecting the post when Taeil was neither bothered nor himself. The contents between each thin wall, beneath that plaster ceiling and the floorboards, hadn't the capacity to be affected by the outside world. Yuta could draw the curtains and indeed, it'd be night. He couldn't explain this to Taeil as sometimes, it was like they were from different worlds rather than different countries and even then it wasn't obvious where to draw the line. "I still don't know why you're home today," he said, pulling the duvet over his bare legs. Now Taeil was crouched in front of his case on the ground, the plastic cover lying across his two feet. It was dark blue and caught the light just barely; the rim shone as if it was white. 

He attempted, once more, to compress the size of his washbag(which he'd go on to unpack later that day so he could brush his teeth, then the following night, then at three in the morning before their flight he'd have to unpack it yet again) between his hands and those long ass fingers. It was a vained effort. "I told you, I have to pack," he said, "and you should be happy."

"I am," Yuta said, the immediate assumption would be that * _ of course he was* _ \- it was only two and he had company from someone who he not only could fuck, but also who he was dating. Though his tea had been made cold as Taeil had forgotten to switch the kettle on this morning(he'd promised Yuta a breakfast in bed, and then poured cold water into a mug with the teabag sticking to the ceramic bottom like a drowned rock, and had somehow undercooked the toast by a wide margin, butter mashed into it in place of melting), it could be said that the day was off to a nicer start. "But like, it only takes half an hour to pack and here you are, missing two days of work."

"They really shouldn't expect me in anyway- it's summer, after all. Rather cruel of them to keep me working," Taeil said, head turned away; "fuck them."

The radiator made a gurgling noise which could be mistaken for a third stomach in the room, and Yuta heard it magnetised with the silence as if it'd been held up to the light. He drew closer to Taeil but found him hard to approach. One hand on his shoulder and a quick kiss- chaste, possibly- there was nothing to be said, nothing to say in regards to it. "Remember your speedos," Yuta went instead, keeping his hand on the shoulder. When Taeil whined, it came out more like a teenager and less like himself. 

"You know I threw those out! So harsh!"

  
  
  


The rest of the day, and assuredly the next one, consisted of lounging about in underwear(more a cause of the heat than anything else; it was only June yet it laid on thick as though the windows were painted black, distinct and killing so one could smell it in the form of melting paint along the walls, lukewarm water, ice cubes that couldn't stand a chance) with a conversation added in somewhat as an afterthought. The everyone in Yuta's life was just Taeil and he lived up to his expectations- relaxed through the day without so much as seeking out his suitcase, which had no fixed location or whereabouts. The packing occured the night before the day they'd leave. He did it like something was constraining him, stomach full of disgusting frozen food that thawed upon so much as being * _ lifted _ * from the freezer shelves. The swimsuit and the odd socks and the hoodie which probably wasn't his. 

"You're gonna end up borrowing my clothes the whole time," Taeil said, shaking his head and- rather excessively- sighing. He had one leg peaked up so his chin rested on his knee, the other laid flat in a way that had to be uncomfortable. Yuta could barely see him through the t shirt he held up in careful consideration. What he saw; the blue and white jocks, his long fingers coiled around the base of his ankle, one eye looking back at him. 

He decided against the shirt then threw it to one side. Even after he thought he'd be done, the suitcase would still require thoughtful excavation and a purging of clothes he was iffy on. It happened every time. "Nah, they're too small for me."

Taeil snorted and he shifted along the bed, box spring squeaking ever so slightly. "Just remember who's dick's bigger next time you try it with the height jokes."

"Just remember who doesn't * _ tie people up _ * in bed, and falls asleep straight after they come," said Yuta, and both eyebrows were raised but they also weren't visible, pair of jeans held in front of his face. Nah. 

"Hey," Taeil said, hands on the edge of the bed so his knuckles turned pinkish- he jutted his neck so far out that it was a wonder it didn't fall off, and if it did it'd whack into Yuta's who was only a few inches away from him now, "we've got all night, haven't we?"

He snorted and pointedly continued with the packing. "Not really, unless you wanna miss the flight."

"Four is in the morning, not the night."

"Well," Yuta sighed and closed the damn suitcase lid. The noise the zipper would make when closed, that was one of the lesser known causes of his death; shrill and clingy. His hands trembled even off the plastic, all with the knowledge that they were about to fuck and it wouldn't exactly make things better. It wouldn't be bad because it never was with Taeil, he hadn't been capable of performing badly in the time they'd screwed, but still the thought and subsequent action of getting intimate without * _ whatever _ * they were lacking loomed on the horizon, in such a way that one couldn't catch and inspect it. The missing key had no presence until its absence took its place, and now Yuta couldn't figure out where they'd turned the wrong corner to end up like this. He had a small suspicion that prickled between his ribs and heart; this disconnect was exclusive to his side, and Taeil's line would continue to buffer without him realising. 

He'd thought for a while- hands to the wall and neck to the tongue- that maybe he was being too picky. That there couldn't exist enough flaws to crack what, should've, at least, been the foundations to a perfect relationship, and should such a thing exist in the first place it seemed as though it'd be between them, of all couples. The novelist and the civil slave and the stable living. Both lookers. No shortage of what one could consider a good sort of poison. 

He touched Taeil anyway, fingertips dragging first over his jaw then over his ear as if his intention was to tuck his hair out of the way, then back down to the jaw and chin. The underside of it was smooth like he'd just been born and the thought made Yuta feel a bit sick, because forever he considered Taeil as something which shouldn't be ruined, rather than someone to have involvements with. They kissed slow. This was a speed which was only found between old relationships between jaded people; they'd attained the knowledge that it'd last forever if allowed, and ran with it as far as their shared rents could take them. 

"I-" Taeil started, then stopped as Yuta moved onto the bed, still kissing away. The sentence never continued and the moment ended like that.

  
  
  


The vending machines in Terminal H were packed together in clusters, and more often than not, out of service. Along the sides of each one a can of coke burst fantastically- pictures of glasses with ice cubes falling into them, soda splashing everywhere. When Yuta whacked his head of the plastic nothing budged except his skull, and there existed a possibility that he was going to smash it if he continued. Taeil minded his own business from a meter away. His fingers flitted about the buttons but his tongue was tied. 

"I'm going to starve," Yuta said, pawing at the glass some more. This action(or perhaps where it was executed) incited an awkward cough in the woman next to him, some old gal in her early fifties with a dozen anime keychains on her fanny pack. When she moved just slightly they'd clack together like they might shatter, and it defeated the purpose of the pack at all, drawing attention to her in ways she hadn't fully realised. Taeil stood behind them now, ripping apart a bag of maltesers with such ferocity it was a wonder they didn't hit the ceiling fan, of which there were many. The chocolate would shatter upon collision and it'd rain sweet shavings, and Taeil would stand with his mouth wide open and tongue out like a porn twink, eyes glazed. 

"I don't think coke'll help with your hunger," he said, and though Yuta wasn't facing him he could see a wobbly reflection of his stance in the glass, how his eyebrows drew together as if whatever Yuta was saying pained him. 

"I'm tired," Yuta said, holding a hand out for a malteser which was bestowed upon him quickly. Maybe because he could be quite the bitch when he didn't get what he wanted. It was only three in the morning, and still the heat hadn't found its way through the airport's revolving doors. The windows came in slices just about everywhere but none of them could open, and the disordinate amount of ceiling fans offered nothing but a breeze which carried as much weight as breath. It was enough to make one feel like a corpse; not only in the stilted movement it brought, but the colour of the rooms and surroundings, all brighter than they'd be in the day with lights that couldn't reach the runway, where beyond the planes a darkness was set so deep it seemed to be watching them. Looking down at his hands, he could see how his skin was shone on so much that it coloured white. The light pierced through to his bones and if it was any stronger he'd be red all over, blood on display as it glooped.

"Aren't we all," Taeil said, even though it wasn't accurate to him. He'd woken up and brushed his teeth with an energy that Yuta had, previously at least, believed was reserved for gym bunnies with their barbells. His pyjamas were barely on before they were off again, shedded to the floor along with the rest of the laundry. The silk looked patchy and clumped at that time when nothing could be seen, except for things in line with the gaps in the curtains. He'd put his socks on first then followed with his showy calvin kleins. "We could go to the food court."

Yuta looked at him and wondered how that hadn't occurred to him before- it seemed so simple now, and he smiled with the knowledge that all it took was a fifteen minute slog through the slow moving crowds to reach a Mcdonalds. The breakfast menu should be available now, hash browns tinted browner than they were with pan grease. "Yes," he said, "yes, take me there."

Taeil rolled his eyes once more. He didn't need to take Yuta, as he was walking about three feet behind him the whole time.

  
  
  


He reemerged in the food hall  just after Yuta, who seemed coked up despite not having consumed anything this morning except for the nutritional makeup of toothpaste, even though he'd tried his hardest to spit it all out. Perhaps it was the prospect of breakfast at all that did it for him; he didn't have a track record of being easily pleased, but when it came with this stupid context it couldn't be called implausible. They set up camp in a Burger King for the next half hour(upon the realisation that the McDonalds had been closed down due to 'safety reasons', and both of them had still groaned, like, as if that didn't mean their food would be touched by larvae before them, and the workers at least wore gloves whereas insects had no hands to put them on) wherein no one else seemed to be. A million flights were flooding in and businesswomen and men alike rushed with pinstripe suits tacked to their skin, though none stopped for food unless it was to get a stale croissant at the deli. The sheer concentration of highly functioning robots about was worrying, and Yuta knew somewhat- more so when he was alone- that one day Taeil could be found among them, hair slicked back to cover a bald patch, ankles too skinny for his socks no matter how many times he folded them over. 

Yuta leaned back in his chair and allowed this all to happen. All it took was one chip in the mcflurry and he'd have Taeil cringing, and this was a thing to savour more than the food itself. When embarrassed for others as much as himself, Taeil went pink, and the blue vein down the side of his nose inflamed like a lit fuse. Currently, he was browsing through the week's guide. Every time he turned a page it sent the empty sugar packets flying. Some ended up on the floor, and if Yuta moved his foot just slightly, his Nikes would collide with a particle of * _ something _ * and significantly drop in value. He kept his feet close together most of the time; avoiding mishaps, as his mind put it. (though really, he had no plans to sell his shoes in the first place so what did it matter? Well, he'd say. I like upholding my good reputation for strangers)

"There's a Vermeer exhibition on soon," Taeil said, probably to himself as he knew Yuta didn't give a shit. * _ Or _ *(and this was a big or), he was hinting about birthdays. This would make a considerable amount of sense as his birthday was approaching like a moving train; good if one was anticipating its arrival, suitcases clacking along the arrivals, and bad if one was tied to the tracks with a head in the way of the wheel. Yuta hadn't been thinking about it, and he suspected it was a conscious effort made subconscious. 

"Very nice," he said, dipping another chip into the off brand mcflurry and then into the barbeque sauce. He was no animal- ice cream first always, no one wanted barbeque sauce polluting the vanilla. This incited no reaction in Taeil. He was too preoccupied with gazing at the cheaply printed paintings. His eyes widened like so, and whenever this happened the pink veins on his eyeball would become highlighted, for all to see and take note of. Cooped up in the booth seat at Burger King, dressed in yellow with eye bags; one couldn't guess his age from a simple look. It'd take a double and a triple and a quadruple take to come close to the inoffensive. Still, one couldn't deny his attractiveness. He was rarely home and this brought an exclusivity to his face, one that slowed down the process of becoming used to the * _ way _ * it moved and didn't. 

He was humming then, and out of nowhere a red pen was in his hands. Yuta couldn't recall ever seeing him write on paper- it was always tissues or shared excel sheets or whatever. When he circled the heading of a page(some art thing, what else) it was messy to the point of imitating barbed wire. Yuta now understood why he never wrote on paper. Four years ago, it had taken him ten minutes to decipher the scribble of Taeil's phone number, on a receipt for laxatives. It took him even longer to figure out he was holding it upside down. When he realised this, the ordeal of adding Taeil's number was one that required a pay off in some form or other, and thus the most awkward of first dates happened. 

"You never bring me to galleries anymore," Taeil said, mildly enough that perhaps he thought he'd get away with it. Yuta stammered with wide eyes, though nothing at all came out of his mouth, propped however widely. 

"Well," he said, dipping another chip into his ice cream. His body was on autopilot; seeking a way to cool itself down. His insides burned for whatever reason, and if he was honest- a lot of this was because Taeil had implied that he'd done wrong, somehow. A noticeable wrong. One to take note of. It wouldn't be so bad if they fought or said passive aggressions, but this wasn't the case. "We can go in Osaka?"

Taeil looked at him without moving his head for a second, as if he mightn't burst into a smile. Inevitably, he did, and it was the small kind that nerdy boys  cherished within their girl friends, the enhanced versions of them in the form of dating sim girlies, eyes unnatural colours. A lot of the time, Taeil acted like he was in some visual novel; sometimes to the point where when he didn't, it could be considered a subversion of tropes within reality. "You've never mentioned it before," he said. "I can't believe it took us this long to go to Japan, in the first place."

"I wanted to be sure our relationship was stable first," Yuta said, hands over his mouth even though usually he didn't care if people saw him chew. He never understood the logic of people covering their mouths, like it'd make their eating a hidden truth or something. "You'd be straight out the door otherwise, seriously. My parents are pretty bad. I'd be * _ abandoned _ .*"

Taeil snorted and closed the guide, so now they were just looking at each other. "We couldn't let that happen."

"No way," Yuta said, "once I missed a solid two weeks of school for no reason, and my mam told the court I was at the dentist."

"You're joking." 

"No, the school board had me fitted for braces the next day," he said, rummaging through the cardboard for his chips, of which there were none. When he pulled his hand out it was slick with grease, like he'd just had it shoved in lard or butter or a cow's asshole. "She's really fucking forgetful, and even when she remembers she doesn't care."

Taeil smiled, and it curved in such a way that meant it was for himself only. He had his hand resting on the table- his fingers were long enough that they draped over the plastic tray, every fingernail facing Yuta, pink and purple through natural bruising. It was just last week where he'd slammed the bathroom door closed on his hand, and ever since his fingertips have been blooming with an assortment of worrying colours. Sometimes they'd be yellow like a sadist had gone over them in highlighter. Most of the time, they were on a keyboard or his temples as he laid down, frustrated within himself. 

"What is it?" Yuta asked, and found himself smiling too, even though the conversation didn't call for it. Not exactly. 

"It's just," Taeil started, and the intercom rang out for gate callings. They didn't have to check their tickets since their gate number was 420, and Yuta had made no shortage of embarrassing jokes about it. Afterwards one would need a lobotomy to forget it. Taeil made to stand up, still talking, "you're saying this stuff like I don't already know about it, like you haven't told me before."

Yuta blinked, and in that moment a lot could be called 'off'. The salt packets slid across the tray when he picked it up. It was too early to * _ really _ * think, in such a way that he could think if he wanted to, but his ability to think about what he should be thinking about was short circuited with exhaustion, a wire out of place in his brain so the information had nowhere to go. 

Standing outside the gate, when Taeil handed him his passport, the Japanese emblem etched into it shone. The gold was thinly applied. It looked more like a strand of hair positioned across the cover, that was how thin it was. He kept turning it over and over, the knowledge that it only had a single stamp clawing at him. 


	2. Chapter 2

They landed in Osaka that morning, and though Yuta had slept against the plane window- worst position, his neck felt as though it'd snap off now- for the entire journey, he still felt obligated to a bit of rest more than anything else. He said nothing as they waited for their bags, and when they finally arrived Taeil took his off the conveyor and then Yuta's. He was short and far from stocky but something within him persevered, and though Yuta's bag weighed as much as any terrible packer's would(his poison in particular meant that he over packed to the point where while backpacking, the idea of him arriving home without a bent spine was far out of reach) Taeil still scooped it up like it was nothing. His arms couldn't even fit around the casing. 

"Let's go," he said in English, smiling for Yuta's sake rather than his own. When he pulled the bag along, it clicked over the dips in the tiles in such a way that echoed. This was a sound that couldn't be escaped- the majority of people about had rolly bags, and no consciousness or ability to affect how they sounded when rolling. Like so, Yuta was left with Taeil's bag and its dark blue cover, Christmas cracker luggage tag flapping without breeze.

Yuta followed him with some level of tired reluctance, before coming to terms with the bag and its colour. He hadn't realised before but the coordination was off- the dark blue when all he wore was black, and Taeil with the black bag and the yellow and the saturated jeans. "You've got mine," he said, or more than likely, whined. It wasn't often that he got the chance to act like a teenage girl; the excuse was that he was exhausted and overwhelmed, because suddenly, after five years, everything was in Japanese again. Taeil was the foreigner, whose name would be spelled with Katakana(maybe incorrectly) while Yuta's mother texted about him. She'd send a huge smiley face sticker as she frowned down at her phone, wondering if she should take the whole 'boyfriend' thing so seriously. Even where other shitty parents failed she didn't care enough to. The mats wouldn't be laid down for them when they reached the house. He'd have to beg one of his sisters for help, and follow this up with a nice bout of praying that one of them would listen. All this while insisting that Taeil was the guest and he should do nothing whatsoever. 

He could whine about the bag, really. There was no other room to complain, besides the one they were in, sectioned off with black tape replacing velvet ropes. The room for complaint went as follows; someone in the line smelled like boiled chicken, disgusting and grey in colour should it be painted. The hands were all out, clutching at different passports as they awaited the picture check- some college girls spoke in Korean a few feet away, rummaging through their bags for them. Each one had a bag consisting of pink, transparent plastic, and a leopard print suitcase pressed against their shins and each other's shins and the tiles. Yuta was vaguely watching them, hoping they didn't somehow flush their passports down the toilet, or eat them in absence of anything else, or maybe the many pairs of tangled earphones in their bags had festered together into a monster, one that engulfed legal documents with stamps and ink and photos of girls with plaits. One girl pushed another jokingly, and the other one laughed it off while trying not to clutch at her shoulder. "I've got your what?" Taeil was saying, turning towards him. For whatever reason, he looked amused. There was nothing one could consider funny in the room. The pure entertainment came from the monotony of it all, and it could only be appreciated in hindsight or with a dumbly ironic pair of eyes. 

"My bag," Yuta said as he twisted at the handle, "let's switch back."

Taeil tilted his head to one side, and his earring remained in position, pointing towards the tiles. It was one of the less flamboyant ones, and though Yuta had tried to persuade him into wearing the cross ones(both of their favourites, admirable to both of them, raw sex appeal that, at least in Yuta's case, had nothing to do with Christianity. But with the rope, Taeil's kinks were unpinnable- he'd never shown much interest in anything before this week) he'd fretted over what 'Mrs. Nakamoto' would think. Even when Yuta told him outright that she wouldn't give a shit, he'd still reached for his clunky, puny hoops on the bedside table in a manner that was sort of agreeable, if only for the way his back was visible when he moved, muscles straining. "For your stupid colour scheme thing? I think most people are meant to grow out of their emo phase."

Yuta was about to pull a face but decided against it. He tried to make his voice crack as much as possible, jaw jutting out in unmistakeable jest, as he said, " _ my name's Moon Taeil and I have a man- no, boy- crush on Brendon Urie, lead singer of critically acclaimed band Panic! At the Disco. _ "

"I fucking hate Taeyong for that," Taeil said, "as well as many other things. Alright, alright, here's your bag. I only took it cos you seemed tired and it's way heavier than mine."

It was way heavier than Taeil's, Yuta realised as soon as they made the switch. The handle was chunkier too, and though Taeil's freakish spider fingers probably fit around it perfectly, to him it was an ordeal to even get his hands around it. Still, he couldn't regret it. His socks were black and his underwear was black and his eyes had always been black. Thus, his bag had to match. It was the way things worked. The circle of life. A small fuel to the fire, which grew with all the things that distracted him from how he felt most of the time.  "No good deed goes unpunished, didn’t you know?”

“You certainly wouldn’t allow it,” Taeil said, smiling. It wasn’t fond but it was something. “Seriously, I hate Taeyong- how long will you hold that Brendon thing against me?”

“For as long as I live,” Yuta laughed, and the line moved forward without them realising. 

  
  
  


After getting shitted out at the other end of customs, Taeil did something very unlike himself- he demanded to go to the extortionist airport shop, in which he went through the process of buying a pack of gum in Japanese. When Yuta laughed(with surprise more than anything else, he wanted to say) Taeil glared at him and brought up how shit his Korean was when they first met. This was both fair and enraging. 

"Fuck you, I'm bi-"

"Yes, and I'm gay," Taeil said, though it was hardly relevant and obvious enough. Well, maybe just to Yuta. They didn't do public affections so if one were to guess, they could call Taeil straight by * _ default _ *(god, did Yuta hate this idea) because there was an unfortunate case of 'straight until proven otherwise' thing going on with Earth right now. 

"I was going to say bilingual, but whatever," Yuta said, and found amusement in how Taeil went pink and then tried to hide it. They were approaching the exit now, being digested through it. The cold air was gaining on them, and neither of them had felt it since they'd boarded the plane at four in the morning, shrinking into their light jumpers. It shouldn't be cold and yet. June was awkward and indecisive when it came to weather, unsure which side of surroundings to take after- May or July, lukewarm or ice cap melting levels of heat. Later, when they reached the Nakamoto house, June would grow stir crazy and reckless and they'd hear the cicadas swell under the sun. "We've gotta take a bus out to the express car park, and meet meet Takuya at the stop."

Taeil pulled his collar up over his mouth like there was a foul smell nearby. Outside, petrol was burning from the cabs and if Yuta closed his eyes, he could picture them exploding in line, fumes hanging close to the ground, silver paint jobs flaking. "Is that the one with nine fingers?"

"It's eight fingers, but yeah," Yuta said. They lined up by the bus stop with the rest of the people from their flight, the same group of college girls tugging plaits out of their hair with their fingertips, pink plastic still crinkling along their backs. There was an electronic sign to be read, which said three minutes until the next bus in orange L.E.Ds- they were quite the eyesore, mislined in such a way that he had to tilt his head to get his bearings, reading the thing like a damn map of a foreign country rather than a simple sign. If he was honest to anyone but himself, he would've told Taeil how nervous he really * _ was _ *. The needles were slurring about in his kidneys even though he'd pissed not just ten minutes ago. It had been years upon years since he'd so much as seen Takuya, and now they'd face a sizeably long car journey together, in which there'd be the expectation of 'catching up' with each other's lives. Takuya would talk about his two missing fingers in the most vulgar of ways, if Yuta had to guess; he'd flick through all the radio stations before turning it off altogether, then say something like 'it's pretty shit, I gotta say, my girlfriend keeps saying she wishes I'd lost my pinky instead, keeps saying that fisting takes  _ *too long _ *- would you believe that?' and Taeil would think he's a weirdo straight away. It'd be accurate but still, Yuta had grown up with Takuya and it'd be cool if they all got along in the same way that they used to hang out- Yuta and Takuya and Takuya's girlfriend, Tomu. The home estate heroes with gingham obsessions, hair slicked up with what could’ve been pan grease. 

"Can he still play?" Taeil was asking, eyes trained first on the ground, then on Yuta's face which scrunched up like he was trying not to laugh. 

"What do you think?" he said, tone light with time rather than anything else. At the start, it had seemed serious, and now the subject of Takuya's missing fingers had devolved into a fond memory. All scars healed, whether they were in the right place or not. Where his right index and middle fingers had been, there were now two fading black spots like lumps of coal. It wouldn't laser off his skin. It wouldn't do anything but heal with missing components. "Of course he can't, I don't know if it escaped your notice but guitars need all ten fingers to be played, more often than not."

On the horizon, the bus was appearing slowly. It was still early as fuck(half six, to be precise), and this made the green paint appear grey against where the sun would rise, later on. Now the sky was just barely yellow and barely present through the lights. "I meant baseball."

"Oh," Yuta said, shrugging. "Guess we'll find out?"

  
  
  


They found out. 

To be precise, after having died a dozen or so times in the bus(which one could've cooked a roast chicken in- so dense with people all sweating themselves to death, this sweat could be collected in a jar and served as the garnish and you'd have a full dinner) they met Takuya at the bus stop. It had been a simple endeavour; his silhouette was visible through the stop's faux glass, fingers framed around a cigarette which framed his stance. He kept two feet shoulder length apart most times without having to think about it, and there'd been a glimpse of him through the arms of other tourists in front of the bus's windows- he looked much the same as he always had. Yuta hoped somewhat, that he'd act and speak the same way too. Maybe the sex jokes could be toned down just a bit for Taeil's sake, and then the car ride could go off without a hitch from the engine, the reputation of Takuya, and the displeasure of Taeil when it came to new faces. Taeil liked to be easy going and when he found it an impossible effort, there was nothing to be done other than feel annoyed. 

He stayed quiet as Yuta and Takuya gradually realised they knew each other, and not in a "oh, I didn't recognise you" way, but rather a "hey, you still play with your fringe when you're nervous" and "wow, can't believe Tomu's still around" way; Yuta looked and found what passed him his first draft years ago, and said, dude, bro, get this published. His eyes widened over the bleached hair but that was about it, and even that was fried enough that it had to be new- each clump of hair looked like chips jutting out of Takuya's skull. It didn't even flop over his forehead. There was no way it could curve at all, it seemed. 

He pinched the collar of his turtleneck with his pinkie and ring fingers, static sparking with each drag. "Is this that Taeil guy."

It wasn't even a question- he just wanted the makings of an introduction, as evident by how he was jittering. The nervous tells of his came in abundances, multiples; first the swipes and flicks of his wrist, then the collar pinching, then the way he looked at the ground without lidding his eyes, so his retinas were opened up to the bacteria in the air, ready to be eaten at. He flicked some ash off his cigarette and it sizzled against the pinks of his nails. This was a gesture which no mind was paid to, not by any one of them. 

"It's-" Taeil faltered, unsure how to continue. He'd recognised his name and nothing else in the sentence, mostly on account of the fact that it was in Japanese. He continued like so- knuckles white around the suitcase handle, red faced to the mildest of extents. "N-nice to meet you," he said in Japanese, and though he dipped his head, Yuta couldn't tell for sure if it was meant to be a bow or if Taeil really was about to drown in nerves. It only went downhill from here on out. Once they reached the house, there'd be the minimal amounts of mercy found in the generic form of condescension- Yuta's sisters would speak slowly, mouths wide around each syllable so their lipstick wore off at the edges. 

Takuya looked like he might say something insulting, then let his cigarette fall to the ground and then, to the black soles of his shoes. "Yeah, you too," he said, and smiled as an alarm went off in the distance. It was the shrill sort that made the cars sound like they had a cold. "Sounds like my car, it like, keeps going off like that," he stepped down onto the gravel. It crunched beneath his feet in a heavy way, churning, being squashed and suffocated with each sole laid down on it- one of Yuta's followed by the other, both of Taeil's at once. Takuya didn't look back to make sure they were still there, and Yuta supposed, it must've been obvious enough by the sounds of their footsteps. "Sometimes even when I'm driving, do you get how  _ *annoying  _ that is*? And when I'm fucking Tomu and it goes off, I haveta keep one hand on her hip and the other out the damn window with the keys in my hand, and she always whines about the cold after. I don't know why it's like that, seriously."

The alarm was still going off, and Yuta didn't manage to laugh in time with it, but nevertheless he was laughing. "Did you not get it checked out?"

"Pfff, 'checked out'. Everywhere's so fucking pricey about these things, it's not like anyone drives these days anyway. I guess it's the garages' last chance to steal people's money," Takuya was waving his hands as he talked now, keys jingling in his left. He stopped before a beat up looking audi, and proceeded to fumble with the keys for as long as the cold allowed it. The boot opened like it was popping and locking, and the suitcases would slip about for the whole drive back since it was actually pretty big, and this didn't escape the notice of Yuta or Taeil but they still found no reason to mention it. If the gods' deemed Yuta deserving of  _ *good things _ *, the amount of clothes he had and hadn't packed would cushion his laptop. His charger. Oh god, his charger. 

Takuya was already sitting in the car when Yuta made an attempt to close the booth, and just as he was about to slam a hand caught his. Taeil was looking at him with mild concern, not for Yuta but for himself. "Please sit in the back with me," he said, switching back to Korean(though this went without saying). "I don't wanna feel like a kid back there by myself, you know?"

"I was going to anyway," Yuta said, though he hadn't thought about the seating arrangement at all. Sort of a weird reason, he thought. But whatever. It may have been awkward to look in the driver's mirror and to see Taeil, how the streetlights would pool in his eyebags weirdly if it was night, how he'd fight away sleep now that it was seven in the morning and they were in Osaka, Japan. Back in their apartment which was, to a degree, in Seoul, takeaway was rotting at the bottom of the bin bag, acid among the otherwise empty white plastic that crinkled every time the flap opened. They'd had shredded duck in separate rooms; Taeil by the tv and Yuta by the laptop with no need for quiet. No one had unloaded the dishwasher and thus, it was the temporary cabinet. In a week, the plates would be steamed so the designs would melt off to the bottom of the machine like slush. Ink would run. Mould would grow in some form. 

It was a wonder this trip came about, in all honesty. Now they'd be spending every second away from the toilet together. This for a week, the unstilted conversation for a week coming as easily as Taeil when he rutted, and not a word of it held any weight whatsoever outside of Yuta's ribs- he worried if the worrying was fake, a lapse of blood in the brain in which he'd conjured up a fake disconnect between them. It was prevalent, grey ceiling strapped in the backseat, silent. Yuta strapped in the backseat, chatting away with Takuya. It was prevalent and if it had been his imagination, he sure wasn't stubborn with the idea of it going away. It'd be how it used to be. It'd carry the goodness of young love without being young, and even old love with all the staleness, just so long as its existence was obvious to all those involved. That was the dream and the solution, and it was all in the hands of the dopamine in Yuta's skull now- he'd done his wishing, his trying, his hoping. There was nothing more to be done but let whatever happen happen. Que sera, sera, and all that nonsense. 

Takuya was flicking through the radio stations with his right hand in a way that was clearly practiced. By the end of it, he'd pressed the power button and the system made a snap as it powered down, a humming in the car disappearing before its existence had been noted. "As you know, I lost my fingers," he said like it didn't mean anything whatsoever, "it's pretty shit, I gotta say, Tomu keeps saying she wishes I'd lost my pinky instead, keeps saying that fisting takes  _ *too long*- _ would you believe that?"

Yuta looked over to Taeil and found him monotoned in the face, and then it occurred to him that Taeil couldn't understand a metric ton of what they'd been saying. He had his neck twisted so his skin folded over the seat belt, eyes cast outside the window, to the orange motorway barriers that gleamed on level with the sun. He reached a hand up to scratch behind his ear like a dog, except that was where the similarities ended- just viewing his profile was a nice enough passtime. His mouth was all chapped up from the messy morning. All things caffeine related, how his face had collided with the front seat's green leather in the plane, as he fell asleep in the way most people fell normally. 

"Hey, we should all get together again sometime," said Yuta, looking back to the metal bars that connected the headrest and the seat before him. 

"She's training to be a vet," Takuya said, and in the rear mirrors his eyes flashed with something or other, an unintelligible expression that could go both ways. Yuta would've known this if he'd responded to her 'hi!' on messenger. It had been a scary thing, to see the word bubble extending out from a photo of a girl he'd known at some point- in the first year of ingesting Seoul's air and its culture that extended to those who weren't Korean, her photo had been of her with purple eyeshadow fading out to her brows,  plucked down to the skin, eyes fixed on something only she could see. It remained like this with various changes for another year; blue shadow, bushier brows, new lip kit. And then it was a picture of her resting her head on the mane of a golden retriever, and that was when Yuta could guess his friends were settling down to quiet lives without him. "The physiotherapy thing didn't work out, you could say."   
Well, that made sense. Tomu had never been a people person nor a person with the capacity to feel skin that wasn't her own, she'd jump and jolt when on her roundabout series of dates when they were fresh out of childhood. Her hands would always roam to the buttons of her coat, the tail and the flare. Never would her arm completely stretch unless dropped to her side. "It suits her," Yuta said, attempting to de-latch the window. The button would get stuck in its pushed down position, plastic crinkling rather than snapping. It was smeared with grease. Beneath his feet, a McDonalds voucher booklet laid out to get ruined.    
"She likes it, yeah, she even made me get her a dog last Christmas."   
Yuta managed it with the button, and the glass slid so all the dirt which had been on it collected at the bottom of the frame. It was more of a tumbleweed than a dust bunny, all grime and trashiness. The retriever, he thought, realising how long it had actually been. With his neck craned out, the road could be looked at like it was rushing by, car static yet being jostled with each crack in the cement. It was outer city and the scenery screamed forgettable. He remembered the worn out playgrounds slapped in the middle of industrial parks so vividly, it was more of a waking up moment to have it all before him again. Not a section of it could be considered home, even so. His bedroom with the curtains drawn. Tomu and Sana sitting on the garage wall, legs swinging in time with each other. Takuya pouring over the manuscripts while his beer poured over the table. His mother letting him down again. In all of these memories, when presented to himself by his brain, Taeil would never be looking back at him. He'd never have to look back as Yuta couldn't find him in the first place. In Osaka, when the buildings crumbled they hurt, and now Taeil could never say Yuta hadn't tried- could never say Yuta hadn't offered an incarnation of his life up to be changed forever. When he reflected from now on, no matter what would happen with the connection and the flat and the takeaway duck that was melting through the floorboards, Taeil would be looking back at him, a part of Yuta's life shoved into his mouth that he'd speak around, the 'is that the one with the nine fingers?' and the 'you never take me to galleries anymore' and the shitty Japanese and the rest of it. It would halt but under no circumstances would it stop.    
  
  
  
When they reached the Nakamoto household, which was more of a shelter for weirdness than anything else, Takuya didn't even get out of the car before driving off. The suitcases were removed from the boot without the caution that would've existed in any other world, with any other boot- what was broken was broken. Yuta could slam his bag down on the pavement by its handle and nothing would change or get out of hand. He didn't bother waving back at the car as it took off, trails of vapour behind it that should've been a red flag had they noticed it earlier.    
"Huh," said Taeil, faced away so seatbelt imprint on his neck twisted along with the flesh. It was ridiculously red, even though that ride hadn't been more than forty minutes and had a shortage of speed bumps and twists that usually went with journeys of its kind. The windows had new blinds, as opposed to the faded blue curtains Yuta had grown used to throughout childhood- each was lowered until they hit the sills, and not a flicker of a silhouette could be seen through any one of them. Everyone was asleep, it seemed, and Yuta supposed- why wouldn't they be? Even if he showed up at one on the back of a jaguar, fireworks flaring about behind the crown of his head, not a single person would stir within. His mother would be found at the kitchen table, ethernet working against her as she blinked slowly- and his sisters, dear lord, Taeko would be passed out somewhere that scratched the depths of weird, like vertical in the chimney or contorted into a fridge shelf or something, and Kana would be picking at her laundry on the kitchen floor like a vulture. When he craned his neck up high enough, he could see that there was a Hatsune Miku decal pressed to his old bedroom window.    
"I can't believe this is where you grew up," Taeil continued, and now he was on the doorstep where a daisy had burst through the concrete and stood, growing. The house was semi detached in suburbia, neighbouring house jutting out of its right side like a growth. This meant that the Nakamotos were often in shade. The sun room extension supposedly caught the light, sometimes. Taeko would conduct sleepovers(in the girliest sense of the word) in it during gaps in the school year, and though Kana had blocked Yuta from her snapchat story Taeko hadn't, and he'd be able to see the clips of fifty high schoolers packed up like sardines, baking through the glass, hopped up on beer of the 'on ice' variant; six percent alcohol and ninety four percent drunk.   
He still had his old set of keys, somehow. It took some wiggling for them to turn the latch. The door opened inwards, and Yuta kept held it for Taeil even though he could've just stepped in, really. "Me neither," he said, "it looks way different."   
Taeil was standing on the rag mat, watching. "Do I take my shoes off?" he said, and then his eyes flitted down to a pair of sparkly pink jelly shoes by the door. The silver buckles glinted in what little light made it through the slot of wood and Yuta's frame. Before this very moment, Yuta had been sure that every pair of jelly shoes were awaiting in vintage shops for aesthetic rather than purchase or purpose. If he had to take a guess, they would almost certainly be both Kana's, and Kana's idea of cute.    
"No one really cares if you do or don't," Yuta said quietly. He hoped Taeil would get the hint and stop thumping his heel against the fiberboard- another nervous tic, one that'd wake up the household and therefore, wake up Yuta's mother, who would shriek like a cockerel on the farm- holy shit, who's there?! "Whatever's comfortable- that's basically what goes in this house," as far as he knew. Though there was room for change, he doubted it went acknowledged by anyone. Mud would still be stamped along the floorboards. Laundry would still hang from banisters and racks and other sorts of racks like dead skin. Cereal between couch cushions.    
Just in the hall, there was a vanity dresser one would find in the dump or a bed and breakfast motel, and it was positioned by the slide of glass parallel with the door. Someone had left butterfly clips on its  surface, where they were proceeding to collect dust. The lightbulb had no lampshade or plate or cover, and thus it left harsh light about the room in the evening or the middle of the night, pooling in the cracks in the boards, along the green walls. Yuta could see himself in the mirror. His hands were close to Taeil's in distance. "It's so quiet in here," Taeil was whispering then, rubbing at his face with either exhaustion or awareness at how out of place he must've seemed. He certainly didn't belong, and as far as Yuta was concerned, it should be a compliment above all else. He took the hand; it had been distracting him. Taeil blinked, more startled than he should've been. Maybe the dust was throwing him off? The smell of j-clothes decomposing? The sound as the house moved with the weather? Yuta reaching for him first? Well. His hand was warm and firm rather than gooey.    
"It's really early, everyone's still asleep," Yuta said, tugging at his grip. "Let's go out back."   
  
  
  
They watched the garden stay still through the extension's windows(or walls, it was all glass, glass, glass). It hadn't showed any signs of raining until the inclinations of going outside began, and now it seemed as though it'd never stop, as though the potted plants would become waterlogged, and as though it'd take a canoe and a six pack of beer to make it back to Seoul at this rate. They'd return to the flat where it was dry as it had always been, both physically and in personality- the last non flooded place on Earth. The ceiling would strain with the kilos of water in the floor above. The duck would be lice infested.    
Yuta held Taeil's hand a little too hard without realising. "I fucking hate Osaka," he said, not withdrawing yet still pissed off, "the one day I'm actually here in * _ June _ * and it rains. I can't believe anyone would pay to come here, let alone me."   
"It's a nice place," Taeil said, but it sounded like he was laughing in his gut. There was the usual sincerity placed with his words- it was the same without being monotone, how he spoke like his eyes were widening more and more with each syllable his mouth * _ leaped _ * to form. Or it'd be smooth as shit, and he wouldn't waste his time thinking about it. In an alternate universe where he wanted to raise children(oh lord, this topic) his kids would grow to age twenty, still believing in Santa because of the way Taeil would explain it- yes, he most definitely is real, hand on my heart. It was hard to tell whether he was serious or not most of the time. Yuta liked to believe that there was something in Osaka; perhaps its heart, for lack of other, real things, that made it gleam in the eyes of tourists. May every hotel window tint rose. Every road they faced out to appear to be gold. Perhaps it was shit living on Earth altogether. Through mortgage and dull ceilings and personal feelings that could ruin pretty much everything, there was plenty of room for the sort of error that took a while to digest. "I must say though, it's clear where you get your cleaning habits from."   
Yuta laughed with sheer delight at his boyfriend's stupid(ly surprising) fork tongue. His boyfriend- fucking weird, that's what it was. He thought it was meant to become a fact of life at some point. It wasn't even like the drowning feeling freshmen got at the sight of their * _ lover _ *, like wow he's so amazing and beautiful, I can't believe he's * _ mine _ *, but rather because for the past year or so the word became a label alone, and its practical use was never put into practice outside of mid-week fucking. Even in Seoulite college, Yuta's acquaintance-with-benefits, some uppity yet blonde(he had a type, but in all fairness, didn't everyone?) girl called Chloe(who was supposedly French), had bought him takeaway after they fucked. At the time, it seemed to him like peak romance without the attached emotions that went with such a thing. Chloe went on to meet the love of her life a month later, after he broke her nose with a lightstick in a DBSK concert- it was so cool, she said with a sigh, his lightstick was in  _ *inverted colours _ *. At the time, Yuta had averted his eyes and reminded himself to burn the takeaway palace's pamphlet. It was symbolic of their short lived flirtationship and it just had to go. There had even been little fingerprints over the duck listings, Chloe's favourite, he remembered; they were flaky with his dried come. A scientist could really have extracted his DNA from it and made a trashier version of himself.

Taeil liked to feel as though he was trying. He liked the neon orange of the lifering in his hands, liked saying he'd been the one to cast it out to sea where Yuta had been suffocating in salt and all his problems. Taeil was the one with the mouthpiece duct taped to his face, and he was the one who reached out when hitches arised. He savoured it above else- when Yuta brought up new kinks, Taeil was quick to make it a point that he'd try them out. He did all the niceties and the gold Christmases and the surprise gifts and the ironing and he took out the trash and was pleasant all round. Yuta wasn't sure why it felt as shallow as it had, to him at least, it felt like the real Taeil was sitting behind a paper partition, veil dipping over his face so he couldn't be seen in such a way that could be called graceful, as the Perfect Boyfriend personality type consulted him on what to say to Yuta. What's his favourite colour? What's his shoe size? Does he like getting handcuffed? Taeil would say, staring hard at the floor, he's a material boy. Kind of lonely. Look accommodating. Look like me. Do me proud.    
Disconnect, disconnect, disconnect. Yuta wondered for the fiftieth time today if it was just on his end, an invented problem which could be driven away if he opened his eyes or allowed it. Fucked it out of him, maybe. Now that they were around each other for consecutive units of measure(surprise surprise) it seemed like Taeil had been untouched since four years ago, and Yuta was unwrapping the personality without pulling away the sheets, to where genuinity lay. Perhaps. Still, it was disorientating, because it wasn't the same and it couldn't be the same ever again. (Could it? Could it, huh? Put some more work into it! Taeil stood at the pier, suit dry as ever. Reach for the fucking ring! I'm trying to save you!)   
The point was, that Chloe and Taeil had both bought him takeaway without it meaning a thing. Or was it something else? Really, Yuta had no clue at that point, but it was Osaka in June and the cicadas were outside drowning. "I'd clean," he said. When he sat on the wicker sofa, it made an unpleasant crunching sound that he associated with stepping on rabbits(not that he'd ever done that before, but an old main character had so long ago). "If you didn't do it for me."   
"The laundry," Taeil said, sitting on Yuta's knees even though they both knew they were extra sharp. It had been mentioned before, during a Monday mood that had slipped through to their sex. No more reverse cowgirl.    
"Some of that's yours," Yuta said, yet he couldn't bring himself to roll his eyes. The claim  was undisputed by the bedroom floor, of which there laid many socks, not all pitch black. He only wore black, though his emo phase had bestowed gingham print upon him more than anything else. He only wore black, though his emo phase had bestowed gingham print upon him more than anything else. He still treasured it within the privacy of his own home, and found himself wondering often, if Kana had reacted with delight or disgust at the range he had in his wardrobe. It had been a surprise to people all over the world when she'd asked for his old attic room- twin sisters who * _ don't _ * share rooms and clothes and boyfriends? What?! He'd found it far better than what would've happened if Taeko had asked for it instead, however.    
Within the house, the beast stirred. There was a feeling that many experienced when Taeko so much as blinked on the other side of the planet- it was a movement that changed the whole world, known as the She-Devil Effect. Yuta knew before the stairs creaked that she was awake and she smelled fresh blood in the water. Taeil began rubbing his face though there was no way for him to know why yet; the stairs creaked again, and again, and again, and the rubbing became clawing at his jaw. Yuta didn't know whether to laugh or cry, though he * _ did _ know* that he'd forever admire Taeko for how strong her presence came off. When she laced up her all-black Adidas, people knew.    
She was at the door, then. As soon as her eyes met Yuta's, she was saying, "oh fuck no," as if she hadn't known he'd be staying. She stood like a fifteen year old, which was revealed when the door swung open; knees jutted out slightly, the rest of her frame straight as a broom. Yuta didn't know what she'd been up to last night but there was still makeup smearing all over her skin, the highlighter stale with dead air. "Mam wasn't-" she paused to tie her hair up into a bun, chin pressing against her collar, "lying this time."   
"Taeko," Yuta said with some distaste. He'd only really said it so Taeil could tell which twin she was, anyway. He'd been in the house for a good fifteen minutes but if Taeko found out her identity went unknown and undistinguished, she'd hate him for the rest of her life. This awful in the case of her. "You're awake."   
"No thanks to you and your..." pause, she went fucking * _ red _ * with a glance at Taeil. This was the darkest timeline. "Your..?"   
"This is Taeil."   
"Your Taeil," she went with, turned back to face the kitchen. This was the room unfortunately connected to where Yuta and Taeil would be sleeping, and also the most popular room in the house besides the sitting room, which was occupied by Taeko and Kana almost every day of summer vacation. At times, the sounds of Channel A.K.A could be heard in the attic as Taeko belted out the English raps all slobbery and Kana laughed because she'd always been generous. Even when it was offensive, she'd laugh for fear of everyone else remaining silent. Taeko turned to Taeil, fast enough that Yuta didn't have the reaction speed to distract her. The fresh blood had his fingertips resting on his nose. Escape distance; three meters to the back door. It rained to bring down the population, but still getting soaked would be favourable over having Taeko psych-analyse(rather than microanalyse) every action and movement and gesture you'd make beneath her gaze. "I'm sure Yuta told you about me, cos he never stops talking about other people's business, but I bet you only know me as the bitchy sister, right? I'm right, aren't I?"   
"Uh," Taeil said, probably not understanding her at all. About that- Yuta went through bouts of forgetting that Taeil knew little to no Japanese. In any other household, this would've made the trip go down a slip below perfection, but with the Nakamotos it would be a good thing not to understand what they said through their pringles and blue acetone. They talked a lot of shit, a lot of the time, a lot of the attitude. And then, instilling surprise which might become permanent, Taeil was saying, "he's mentioned you- Taeko, is it?"In Japanese. It wasn't even * _ that _ * accented. Yuta whipped his head round so fast it might've become a sidefeature of his body, one which dangled by a loose thread of nerves rather than by the esophagus or the spine or the flesh coating where his throat should've been.    
He didn't mention it. This discovery would be well received by Taeko, who'd find herself able to tolerate the world for another day- and for the week, this world consisted of Taeil's presence, no matter how much it resembled that of a snowman in an inoffensive, cute, watery sense. Back in the first year it had been a white winter, and they sledded down the slope at the frayed football club on a car bonnet. Johnny and Taeyong had been there, tucked away into hipster coats with fabric labels stitched into the collars; Taeyong was coming down hard after having read Catcher in the Rye for the first time in its original language, and he was delighted with himself with his head shoved up his ass and into his hunting cap all at once. Yuta didn't catch what Taeyong got up to most of the time these days. It had gotten to the point where a slab of ceiling had affected his moods more. His laptop held deep significance on its keys; it was easy to think about but hard to live down, as once Yuta had dug up an old story of his from when he should've been old enough to know better, in which the love interest strongly resembled Taeyong down to his 'jaw. Hard as diamond.' (he'd been quite taken with Taeyong's jaw and how it looked like it could kill a squirrel if given opportunity, an angle which it could drop on a tiny skull in its toughness. He'd also been quite taken with fragmented sentences- for what reason, he didn't know anymore. Suddenly the idea of stark imagery seemed childish and ineffective to him in a way that couldn't be taken back). There was no point to this reminiscing, but if he had to think one up on the fly, he'd say that in the white winter, on the fucking car bonnet, as the snot dribbled into his mouth, Taeil looked more drippy and snowman-like than he'd ever look again. Effective immediately. Now, his eyes were skewed in Taeko's favour, and subsequently his own. She liked the attention. She liked when things were impersonal, when strangers considered her with something so simple as 'I'm talking to her, better make eye contact' or 'so this is the bitchy sister'. Even though this seemed to be a trait which came with age, when Yuta had last seen her at age nine, she'd been much the same. "If I told you I was Kana, you'd probably like me better," she was saying, one hand flapping next to her face like in that Kpop video Kana had on repeat up in her room(it was all up in the air and beneath the kitchen sink, these pipe dreams, but she had aspirations that went further than a generation of AKB48 'although that would be wonderful too' she'd say- it was within her interest to get picked up at some idol company's international auditions. As a teenager, Yuta didn't trust her to manage her thoughts well. Now as an adult he could say she had potential, after all the vocal coaching she got at her short lived finishing school). "But she's still upstairs," Taeko continued, and Taeil somehow maintained the eye contact. "Asleep. I guess you could say I'm the good twin, welcoming the guest _ s  _ and all."   
Yuta didn't snort. "You snorted," Taeko said, and out of nowhere a bright light was being shone through his skin like in a movie, like it was really there when the feeling of being pinned was shoved aside, but this was all a metaphor so there were no lights. The interrogation chamber descended upon him by the desk and the walls and her wide eyes. If she looked up, the veins would show up red near her lower lashes. "You were going to, at least. I heard the way your breathing went."   
"Is anyone else hungry?" he said, weakly. Wearily even. She'd been wearing away at his temper for years now, and it had disappeared with only the trails of sad acceptance remaining. Sad acceptance that she was really scary- scary because it was red hot, rather than the darkness that came along with being creepy. He didn't know what it was, honest.    
She grinned. "Taeil was just about to laugh at you, but he suppressed it. I heard that too. I'd like him to know that I hear everything."   
"I think he gets the idea," Yuta said, swerving around her to get by without making contact. She'd turned on all the lights downstairs although it hadn't been dark. It must've been because of how the rain made things look; tinted grey like a pile of leeches had taken the rest, and it was depressing to know that what was left behind was what they saw. At least when things were yellowish they'd make your eyes happy. In the kitchen, the clothes tumbled about in the washing machine's metal coil with the occasional rattle. The microwave beamed its numbers and time, nearing eight still, and it took Yuta somewhere distant to where he'd sit at the table watching it, a hand on his textbook and a hand on his face but never on his pen, awaiting the right time to pretend he'd done his homework. It was a very specific timeframe to get away with it; past fifteen minutes, no longer than twenty otherwise it'd be presumed as dawdling about doing whatever he used to do.

"Are those my shoes?" Taeko had moved into the kitchen again, fingernails digging into the polished charcoal counters. A slipper dangled off the end of her foot, so pink it could probably be torn up from a mermaid's lair, rested on a marble tray with the clams and oyster shells and cutlery fuzzy with hair. She was talking to Yuta, it seemed, by how no attempts to mask her annoyance were made.    
"What? No," he said honestly. He doubted they'd even fit on his feet- though small, it'd take a good degree of tailoring and retailoring to shove fifteen year old girl shoes over his black socks. There was no reason to, but he spared a glance downwards anyway. His laces were raggedy and undone, one lying across the leather tongues. The plastic end chipped. It'd burst soon, and the soft frays and threads would be left splitting apart.    
"Hm," she said, distorted through the sound of the kettle filling up. "They look like mine."   
Yuta left his back to press against the fridge handle and door, where it would become irreversibly cold. His spine felt like it might've become horizontal in the plane ride, the flesh surrounding it bending with this change."They're not."   
"Stop laughing, Taeil," Taeko said, putting the kettle down on the plastic cradle, which it simmered on with the press of the button. It was the kind with grate between it and the outside air, and thus no steam escaped no matter how long it was left to boil. "I can hear you laughing, spiritually."   
Taeil stood between each panel of wood that made up the doorframe. One hand was pointed outwards slightly in such a way that its intentions were obvious- to grasp at something, it seemed, though the planks were prone to puncturing people's skin with their splinters and roughness, and it wouldn't be worth the risk. His fingertips found the cuffs of his sleeves and stayed there. "Is that the word for it?" he was smiling, bright enough that it could be interpreted in quite the opposite way; he wasn't making fun of her, snark had been lost on him for the entirety of his life. Nothing was new, and nothing seemed to change. Yuta looked away. The floor tiles proved to be as boring as he'd assumed. The sheen was wearing off, and though when they came packed up in a cardboard box they hadn't been called matte, they certainly were now through lack of cleaning or care alone. Or maybe it was a shortage of bleach in the house, of which a single bottle stood decaying on the upstairs bathroom's window frame, cramped between four dollie plates full of seashells- that was how he remembered it. They'd never been an á naturale sort of family through ideology, but rather through a distinct lack of effort on whoever's part you were focusing on at any given time.     
"You know," Taeko said as the kettle hit its boiling point. She spoke louder next, so even the high pitched whistle couldn't cut her off without her permission first, one hand on its looped rubber handle and the other reaching into the depths of the presses in search for the coldness of ceramic. The mug she picked without looking had the red Power Ranger on it, from an easter egg bundle they'd eaten through like alley rats when it was first given to them by their aunt. Taeko considered it for a moment before deeming it acceptable. "For one of Yuta's friends, you're actually alright, I guess. You should ditch him."   
"Your friends hate you," Yuta said, smiling. He didn't have a guess or a clue as to whether this was accurate, but it had to be said, as far as he was concerned. The way the conversation curved instilled a suspicion in his gut, one which told him that his mother hadn't told Kana and Taeko what Taeil actually * _ was _ *(that being, his boyfriend). He didn't bother confirming or denying any of their thoughts, mostly because it'd be embarrassing.    
Taeko ripped apart a sachet of instant Cappuccino, the kind with the half skimmed milk. Some powder got on the counter and got ignored all at once. She made her mug without saying anything, then walked to the sitting room door, slow enough that it allowed her clothes to rustle in an almost intimidating way, her imported silk pyjamas seemed to breath. She shot them both a look which read, please leave me alone now. "You don't know any of them," the door was open then, and the sitting room smell rushed in- this consisted of dust that seemed to be lived in and chronic, spilled potpourri, ash. They never got the urn. The latch clicked shut upon her exit, strained with relief.    
Yuta first poured a cup for Taeil, then for himself. In Taeil's he was sure to put one sugar, which dissolved in the few seconds of silence shared between them. The tub of sweetener was a new brand from what Yuta had grown used to- orange this time, with a red bannered logo and a graphic of a wilting sponge cake.    
"She's a little weird," Taeil said, and Yuta breathed fast with amused surprise, one which proved too weak to make him laugh completely with his mouth wide, waiting to collect flies and germs in the air. It could be a snort but that'd make him unappealing. He felt clammy in that moment as the cappucino burned his tongue and the sweetener rubbed into the wound, and decided it had to be his clothes, and their need to be changed. Taeil lifted his mug towards his chin, which revealed the little picture on its base- this one of a hand painted cat. Fitting.   
"Your face is red," Yuta said, watching the decal rise and fall. His hands would suffer from third degree burns but something kept him from putting the mug down, though this thing escaped him. The fridge began humming worriedly. He felt it all up his back, massaging the discs in his spine like they'd get worked out through his pores, great hunks of bone sputtering out until they hit the tiles with various clicks and clacks and miniscule dents.   
"I don't see how that's relevant," Taeil said, but he pushed some hair out of his forehead anyway. His eyes scanned the room,  even though he knew Yuta was the only one there, and he knew that Yuta would catch this movement just as he caught every other one.    
"Conversation never is," Yuta declung his hand from the ceramic to press it against Taeil's jaw, and there was a hissing sound from the skin by his mouth, the heat of Yuta's hand, and Taeil jumped slightly as if he'd been burned. "So, sleep?"   
"If we drink later, then yeah," Taeil said with a shrug, face redder than it had been before. "Otherwise I'll be awake all night."   
"Sure, whatever," Yuta said, and moved to step back into the sunroom. Typical of Osaka, the weather had done a U-turn complete with absolute flourish, and his back went warm against the new sun and its light. He knew full well that they wouldn't drink later, on account of disturbing the disregardance for everyone in the Nakamoto house, and more importantly, the plans he had for the rest of the week, all of which were only materialised in his head. All would require more energy than they'd ever have. None would be executed to their highest potential, and yet.   
They set up the foam mats desperately fast, and filled the gap between them with a folded up sheet so it was almost like a double bed or a monumental first fuck on a friend's sofa, without any of the sex and all of the exhaustion that came afterwards. They slept as though they weren't out of the closet, a fingertip apart that extended beneath the duvet. Yuta slept for the whole morning while Taeil pretended to do the same. As the weather caused the window glass to swell, the blow up pool in the back garden began to amass a pile of leaves from when the trees ruffled and shed; they'd float along the surface barely delicate enough not to sink, and Taeil thought, arm covering his eyes,  _ good god it's hot in here. _   


**Author's Note:**

> ive got so much more of this in my laptop, if anyones interested
> 
> follow me on twitter for writing updates @11dishwashers for updates :) thanks for reading!


End file.
